Back to Hell (A Demonata Fan Fiction) [ON HIATUS]

And So it Begins...

I step precariously through the throngs of people, hoping my steel-toe boots don't break an innocent person's shin. It's a hope unneeded though, as everyone veers around me, afraid to touch a scrap of my clothes or breathe the same air. 

It's understandable. I know my all-black attire sends bad vibes to the suspicious villagers in Carcery Vale, and my blue-dyed hair doesn't exactly scream "trustworthy." Since birth, I've stood out like I hold up a "WARNING: MANIAC" sign above me all the time. The difference between me and your average outcast, however, is I embrace my peculiarness. I even went so far as to pierce my lip and various parts of my ears. 

The real reason people avoid me -although they aren't consciously aware of it- is because I'm a magician. I'm a rare sort of human with magical powers (A.K.A. a Disciple) that protects the world. I've been training all my life to become powerful, but I rarely get to use that power. Magic is weak here on Earth, and I haven't ever gotten the chance to travel to the other universe to test my limits. 

I adjust the strap to my backpack and hurry on, the crowds in the small street dispersing in my wake.

After a while of walking, I stop in front of my destination. It's a dusty, old mansion, looming and fearsome in it's own neck of the woods. It's supposedly the home of a Disciple I've been sent to work with, but I don't think anyone's home. 

I stare up at the strange house, irrational fear keeping me from running up and ringing the doorbell. The mansion looks evil from the outside, with its unusual "L" shape and the trees stretching out endlessly behind it. But I scowl at myself for being so foolish and trudge up to the door, raising a fist to rap my knuckles against the wood. 

Loud, angry music muffles the sound, and I sigh impatiently, knocking more forcefully, then ringing the doorbell. Eventually the music stops and the door swings open. A young punk stands in the doorway, in his late teens or early twenties, towering over me with a frown on his face. His hair is spiked up, the tips bright purple. He's wearing a band t-shirt, ripped jeans, and chains dangling from his belt loop. 

"What do you want?" he grumbles, eyeing me warily. He subtly flicks his fingers, and the music starts up again, softer this time. 

"I'm Syrra Harche," I say, raising an eyebrow. This is what Disciples looked like nowadays? "I was sent to-" 

"Live with me, yeah, yeah." The punk yawns. "Come in. Choose a room upstairs and put your stuff in it. I'll order pizza." He walks off, leaving me to my own devices. I hadn't even caught his name.

I choose a large room on the second floor. It has only a simple, bare bed, a dresser, closet, and large window, but I can make it home. 

Carefully, I lock the door behind me, taking off my backpack. I mutter the words of a spell and start pulling things out. Sheets and covers for the bed, all my clothes, posters that have been rolled up, a few notebooks and art supplies, and other various nicknacks. Together, they cover the bed until hardly an inch of space is left. 

The spell I had used had made all those items smaller so I could transport them easily. That bit of magic tires me, but I get to work on decorating my new room, making the bed and taping the posters to the walls to start.  

After fifteen minutes, I creep downstairs to the den. The punk is laying on the couch, singing along to the song booming through the stereo plugged into the wall. 

"You should've known... the price of evil... and it hurts to know that you belong here." I smile at the sight, enjoying the sexy lead singer's voice in contrast to the boy's soft-yet-harsh one. 

"It's your fuckin' nightmare," I sing along, laughing as the punk jumps and falls off the couch. As I casually hop onto the sofa, he pulls himself up and glares at me. 

"I didn't know you liked that type of music," I say, smiling. The punk cocks his head but says nothing for a while. Then he inhales slowly. 

"Yeah, a friend recommended it to me," he says awkwardly, exhaling. He straightens out his spikes with his fingertips. "I'm Dervish, by the way." 

"As you already know, I'm Syrra," I respond. 

"Sarah?" He raises an eyebrow questioningly. 

"Sear-ah," I pronounce, then I spell my name out for him. 

For a while after that, we make small talk. Then the doorbell rings and Dervish stands up quickly. 

"If that's the pizza man, it's been past thirty minutes!" he roars. He storms over to the front doors and yanks them open. I see his face blanch in surprise, but he recovers swiftly. He steps outside with whoever was at the door. 

I wait five minutes, then ten, for Dervish to return. I grow worried as I realise that whoever -or whatever- knocked was obviously not the delivery guy. 

Biting my lip, I get off the couch and tiptoe to the doors, wincing as the floorboards creak below me. My pale hand reaches out and wraps around the cool handle. Holding my breath, I slowly pull the door open just enough to peek through. 

I spy Dervish arguing heatedly with- No! It couldn't be! That's impossible! 

With a scream, I kick open the door and tackle the familiar human with all my might.